An Unexpected Turn of Events
by PemberleyFan
Summary: Mr. Bennet outlives his wife and must work out a new life for himself as he follows this unexpected turn of events. Sequel to Persistent Pursuit and Love's Fool: The Taming of Lydia Bennet. Yes, we will get to see Elizabeth, Jane, and of course Lydia! This is a work in progress.
1. Chapter 1

The very thing Mrs. Bennet had spent most of her adult years avoiding finally came true, but in an unexpected form. Mr. Bennet had the unforeseen good fortune of outliving his wife.

In the end, her nerves, which had long been Mr. Bennet's good friends, became her downfall as she succumbed to an apoplectic fit.

None of her children were at home to see the sad event. Jane was with her Mr. Bingley at Vinings and came rushing to her father's side with appropriate speed, accompanied by her husband; Elizabeth came with Darcy at the same time. Mrs. Bennet had certainly chosen a convenient time to die from their standpoint, since the Darcys had been visiting the Bingleys at their home, and so the sad announcement could be made with great expediency in their case.

It was nearly as convenient for Kitty and her Mr. Masterson, at their small estate, Hazelton. Mary was with Kitty when the special messenger made his announcement, and for a full minute even Mary could think of no comforting platitudes to offer. They stood together in shock, and then Kitty began wailing, Mr. Masterson began directing the servants to pack at once, and Mary resumed her seat at the tea table, determined that it would be a waste to lose perfectly good scones even at a time like this. She did, however, pause for a moment to offer a private prayer for the repose of her mother's soul. Afterwards, she packed.

Lydia, influenced by her military husband, had the most practical approach. The messenger had not long been at Godfrey House when he was dispatched back to Longbourn with a business-like missive. Did Mr. Bennet want them to come at once? If he did, how did he plan to house his five daughters, their four husbands, the various children, and all their servants? Would it be best if they planned on taking rooms at the inn in Meryton, or did Aunt Phillips perhaps have accommodations for some of them? Had he had time yet to arrange for poor Mrs. Bennet's services? Please reply at once, she said, so that they could make the necessary arrangements.

No children, Mr. Bennet said by quick reply. He wanted none of the grandchildren present to aggravate his own nerves at such a time. Arrangements had already been made and the services would be carried out as soon as all of Mrs. Bennet's five daughters could be present. As for accommodations, he really did not care where they stayed so long as they stayed out of his way. He told them to make whatever arrangements pleased themselves. The said daughters made their way to Longbourn with all appropriate speed, accompanied by their appropriately supportive husbands, and services were carried out in due course.

Mr. and Mrs. Collins were present at the services. Mr. Collins would lose no opportunity to comfort where comfort was not wanted or needed, and he prevailed on his newly bereaved cousin tediously, until Mrs. Fret threatened him with bodily harm if he said another word. Collins was, to be honest, slightly disappointed. It was the duty of Mr. Bennet to predecease his wife, was it not? Had history followed its divine order, Mr. Bennet would have died first and he himself would now be in de facto possession of Longbourn. Instead it looked like he would have to keep on waiting for what should have rightfully been his already. He would return to Hunsford with ideas for multiple sermons on the vengeance of a divine being.

Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were present, along with Mrs. Gardiner, who was now a widow herself. She comforted her nieces as best she could and was comforted by them in return. Mrs. Phillips comforted _herself_ by looking at the well to do husbands of her nieces and imagining the pin money they all enjoyed, and wondering how generously they shared their wealth.

It was a successful funeral, if such functions can be measured as successful or not. The minister spoke with touching eloquence on the life of Fanny Bennet and afterwards, her friends and relatives spoke movingly of how much they would miss her. She had been, they all said, a most devoted and attentive neighbor, eager to participate in the life of the community, concerned for the good marriages of her daughters (in which she had succeeded marvelously in four out of five cases), and a steady and loyal companion to her husband to the end. In other words, the usual kinds of falsehoods were told and accepted without question at Fanny Bennet's funeral.

Afterwards, all the Bennet daughters and their matching husbands sat around the dining room table at Longbourn with their newly widowed father and made plans. It was not long, just a few weeks, before those plans were carried out, and a messenger of a very different sort was sent to the Collinses. Mr. Collins repaired speedily to Longbourn, gratified that divine providence had chosen to smile on him after all, though perhaps not as kindly as he had first hoped.

Longbourn would be let to Mr. Collins, the house and surrounding properties together, for a very small fee each year. The small fee was so small that Mr. Bennet wondered why he bothered charging Collins anything at all. He certainly did not need the money. He and Mary would be well supported by his married daughters and he would spend a portion of his time in each of their households by turn in the upcoming years. But it was the principle of the thing-Collins should not receive for free what could not be truly his for, hopefully, a number of years yet. Accordingly, the contract was drawn up and signed and Mr. Collins prepared to take possession of Longbourn in just under a month's time, which made him smile with happy anticipation. The parsonage was beginning to be a bit cramped for him, Mrs. Collins, and their three children, and even he had begun to tire of constantly dancing attendance on the ever imperious Lady Catherine. It was time for a change.

And so Mr. Bennet stood in the graveyard at Longbourn church one dreary November day. In the distance he could see the carts and carriages hired by Mr. Collins, transporting his family's possessions to Longbourn's back door. He himself had left through the front door not half an hour previous, his own few possessions having preceded him only a short while before.

He stood with hat in hand for a few minutes, contemplating the grave of one Fanny Bennet. His contemplations were not all pleasant. He had held little affection for Fanny, but he had held some, and there was a part of himself that felt he had let her down by being the one to outlive the other. It was not the natural order of things, or so he felt. He ought to have been a better husband to her when she was alive, he thought, so that she might have been a better mother to their children. He ought at least to have passed before she did, so that she could have enjoyed the life he would now have with his various children, a life she would no doubt have enjoyed more thoroughly than he would.

But what was done was done, and could not well be undone. He said a quick prayer, replaced his hat on his head, and began to turn away from the grave that was already beginning to fill in with grass and leaves. But before he left, he placed his hand on the new placed gravestone and caressed it briefly, remembering the first days of his marriage with Fanny. Then he strode away, mounted the stairs that had been placed before the carriage with an ornate D engraved on the side, and rode away from Longbourn forever.

**Dear Readers, **

** It has been two years since I first started writing this story! First I was distracted with the writing of ****_One False Step,_**** and then I was caught up with ****_Common Ground_**** and ****_Duty Demands._**** But Mr. Bennet has never left my thoughts for long, and I am at long last ready to finish his tale. I hope you will excuse the long delay. As always, constructive criticism is welcome; trolls, not so much. I always love hearing from each of you! -Elaine Owen**


	2. Chapter 2

The first months of his bereaved state proceeded more or less as he had expected, if he had had the opportunity to expect anything at all.

From November until March he lived at Pemberley, with Elizabeth, Darcy, and their three children, in a suite of rooms in the family wing of the sprawling mansion. It was not the same suite he had shared with Mrs. Bennet whenever they had made their visits to their second, and wealthiest, daughter. Mr. Bennet had the uncomfortable feeling that Elizabeth was going out of her way to do nothing that might possibly remind him of the dearly departed, and lodging him in a different room than on previous visits was one evidence of this effort.

He and Fanny had never stayed at Pemberley for such an extended period before, and after the initial novelty was past, Thomas (for such was his Christian name) found himself at a bit of a loss for activity. It was an unusually cold winter, with frequent heavy snows, and so the hunting parties he might have joined in the neighborhood did not materialize. With outdoor activities severely limited, he tried in vain to entertain himself indoors instead.

His first thought was his oldest grandson, a handsome ten year old named for his father whose lively nature reminded him of Elizabeth at the same age. He would fain sit with the boy and discuss favorite novels, as he had once done with the boy's mother, but the chances for these discussions were few and far between. Young Fitz was in the school room much of the time, and when he wasn't there, then he was assisting his father and learning about estate matters. His education would certainly lack for nothing, Thomas grudgingly admitted, for the elder Darcy was strict about his son's attendance to duty. Probably too strict, Thomas would have said if he had been asked, but since nobody did, he sighed and tried instead to speak with the younger children. But their constant exuberance grated on his nerves and he tolerated them only for short periods of time.

Time with Elizabeth was also in short supply. He approached her many times for a discussion of their favorite topics, and she was always very pleasant, very accommodating, and very busy. One of the children needed her, or else she was required at a neighbor's home on a matter of great importance. She did find the time to tell him that she was once again _enceinte_, and then talk turned to babies, midwives, nurseries, etc. He listened politely to her excitement but found that he could not share it. He felt, at the age of fifty and six, utterly exhausted, drawn out, like jam spread too thinly over a piece of bread.

Darcy himself was everything polite and accommodating, and when he had time for Mr. Bennet, they enjoyed a game or two of billiards together. But these times were not often enough to stimulate his interest in staying past the agreed upon departure date of Lady Day, in late March, when he would go to be with Jane and Bingley.

He often found himself sitting with Darcy and Elizabeth, and perhaps a guest or two, at the dinner table, trying to listen with polite interest while they discussed whatever the subject of the day was. The current trend towards more and more mechanization of labor was a favorite topic. Darcy and Elizabeth held very different opinions on the subject.

"It is the way of the future," Darcy told his wife one evening, "and I believe that investing a bit in certain well placed factories, close to good roads, might be beneficial for our holdings. I have directed my business manager to find well-run factories that meet certain parameters we laid out together, for consideration of capital."

"The new factories certainly make more product in a shorter time, but machines cannot replace the human touch. There is a chilling coldness in holding a piece of scarf that is exactly identical to at least a thousand others in the country, knowing that what you hold is not unique to you at all, but simply one of many things that are totally indistinguishable from each other. I much prefer a scarf hand made for me with love by one of my sisters, than a score made by a faceless machine."

"Efficiency has its own beauty," her husband responded. "If those scarves can be made by machine, they can be made not only more rapidly and in greater quantity, but at a far lower cost, making such goods accessible to people of varying statuses. It is a quite an egalitarian concept, a great equalizer, would you not agree, Mr. Bennet?"

"Equalizing by making all the same!" Elizabeth protested. "By removing all individuality and with it, all semblance of charm! I do not find that agreeable at all, and I am certain papa would not either."

Here, both husband and wife stopped and looked at Thomas expectantly. He looked back at them, feeling somehow that he had lost the thread of the conversation. An answer was expected, but he could not quite recall the exact subject of the discussion. "I was just thinking, Lizzie, of the lemon tarts Mrs. Hill used to make of a Sunday. Each was a vision of perfection on its own, were they not? Each one different, and every one of them so delightful to the taste." He smiled gently at her.

Elizabeth hesitated briefly before patting his hand and smiling affectionately, and she and Darcy exchanged a look. The next day there were lemon tarts at tea.

But later, in making his way through a less-familiar passage of the far flung corridors, he chanced to overhear part of a low conversation between Elizabeth and Darcy, where Thomas himself was the subject of conversation.

"-more interested in the children," he heard Elizabeth say. "It would help him if he could find a way to be more outgoing with them, more able to listen to their little stories and tell them some in return. And they would enjoy that so much."

"It is not in his nature, my dear," Darcy's deep voice answered. "It is often difficult, for people his age, to accommodate themselves to the noise and activity that little ones bring. He is doing the best he can; you must be patient. He will find his place here sooner or later. He has only been widowed for four months."

"Can you not find more opportunities to spend time with him? I know he enjoys your company so much, and I have not been as available as I would like, with the illness of the new baby on me."

"I will clear my schedule tomorrow afternoon, if Porter can do without my presence for the inspection of the fence repairs."

By this Thomas determined that Elizabeth was worried about him, and that he was generally thought not to be finding his way in his new life.

He realized with a start one afternoon that he even missed Mrs. Bennet, however slightly. She had not been a great comfort to him, but she had at least been familiar, and he would appreciate anything familiar in this new life.

He spoke abruptly to Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, when she entered the library later that same day. Thomas was trying desperately to read a book he had at one time found interesting, and was now discovering that he could read it upside down just as effectively as right side up, for all the good he was getting out of it. Mrs. Reynolds entered the room to replace worn down candles in the various lamps, and he watched her in silence for two minutes before asking her, rather abruptly, "You are a widow, are you not?"

Mrs. Reynolds started and looked at him in surprise—as well she should, since he had rarely spoken to her before, and not at all on this day. "Yes, sir, I have been a widow for five years."

"You are the daughter of the previous Mrs. Reynolds, if memory serves."

"I am her daughter-in-law, sir. My husband's mother left service after my husband died, so that I might work in her place."

"I see. How did your husband pass? What brought about his early demise?"

The question came out more harshly than he had intended, and a shadow passed over the woman's face. She looked away for a moment while Thomas mentally chastised himself. "Forgive me," he added, more gently, "I should not have asked. My age and recent change in circumstances make me forget myself sometimes. I give you leave to forget the impertinent inquiries of an old man."

Mrs. Reynolds looked back at him and shook her head, her face regretful but not sad. "You merely surprised me, sir, nothing more. I do not mind telling you that he was killed by an accidental discharge of his gun."

"So it was quick, then? No suffering?"

She nodded once, her expression serene.

"And do you have any children? What gives focus to your day, other than your work here?"

With that, her face lit up with a warm smile. "My Robert is eight years old, sir. He gives me the greatest of joy. I do not know what I should do without him. I thought to die myself, when I lost his father."

Thomas leaned forward almost imperceptibly. "After your husband passed, how did you re-order your life? How did you find the pattern of your days changed, and then made new again, after such a loss?"

"They were not greatly altered. As I said, my husband's mother left Pemberley's service, and she took on the charge of young Robert every day. In exchange I took her position as housekeeper. The greatest difference was that, instead of retiring to my husband and child each night, I retired only to my son."

He sat back, oddly disappointed. "It must be pleasant, to have someone who still needs you. It must be very agreeable to know that your presence in the world still matters to at least one other person."

Mrs. Reynolds observed him in silence for a moment.

"Very well, Mrs. Reynolds, you may go. Your work here is done," he said, and waved his hand dismissively.

The housekeeper hesitated before turning away. "You will find your place eventually," she finally said. "Please do give yourself some time, sir. I think you will discover that a change of scenery, and a generally new outlook, may do you much good." She curtsied and left the room, leaving Thomas to look thoughtfully after her.


	3. Chapter 3

The very next day after this conversation was the day appointed for Thomas to join Jane and Bingley at Vinings, eight and twenty miles from Pemberley, and at the appropriate time an oversized carriage without any ornate family emblem on the door arrived to take him to his destination.

It was no more than half a day's journey to his oldest daughter's home, situated near enough to Pemberley to satisfy both sisters. Jane and Bingley were both waiting for Thomas when the carriage stopped, but first he had to wait for a few moments after the door was opened, before the steps were properly put in place. As he alighted, his granddaughters Sophie and Anne physically attacked his legs, wrapping their arms around them and exclaiming in joy until their mother made them stop. Jane embraced her father, Bingley shook his hand warmly, and he was brought inside with a real feeling of family togetherness.

Vinings was nowhere near the size of Pemberley, and the Bingleys and Bennets had generally all stayed at Pemberley together when they wished to visit. It had been several years, in fact, since Thomas had seen Vinings at all. Therefore he looked about himself curiously to revisit details which had grown blurred in his mind.

All seemed as lively and prosperous as ever. The same soft pink rose bushes, favorites of Jane, grew in the front of the house. Thomas remembered that Fanny had often exclaimed over them and wished that she had some just like them at Longbourn. The ivy vines which gave the house its name still overgrew the walls of both the house and stable, and the shutters around the windows still showed their accustomed dull blue paint. Nothing here had changed.

The house itself was a straight, low-built structure of two stories, with a row of windows on each story in the front and a rather smaller set along the side. A spacious portico opened in the front to a covered entry way into the house, and a small garden on the side of the home, fitted out with several ivy-strewn benches, completed its gracious look.

He was rather astounded by the number of servants who had come to meet him. He counted them once, and then counted them again just to be sure his eyes had not deceived him. Had there really been seven maids and five footmen in attendance at the house when the Bennets had last visited? Fanny could have told him if there were. She had known the exact number of domestic help available in all of her married daughter's homes, and regaled her friends and neighbors with those numbers endlessly whenever she could. But he himself could not seem to recall. All of them, however, greeted him respectfully enough, and he nodded at each in return, wondering what work was being done in the house to necessitate such a sizeable staff.

Inside the parlor he distributed the gifts sent by the Darcys to everyone—a letter from Elizabeth to Jane, part of her weekly correspondence; a pair of gloves; and a book on crop rotation from Darcy to Bingley. He also had sweetmeats for the two oldest children, who took them from his hand and ran off without a curtsey or a word of thanks while Jane apologized for their excitement. Elizabeth had also sent a new gown for the youngest Bingley, named Fanny for her grandmother, just two months old and sleeping soundly in the nursery through all the noise of his arrival.

Thomas was to become accustomed to hearing Jane's apologies over the next weeks, to the point that it became almost wearisome. It seemed that there was a great deal she had to apologize for.

Sophie and Anne were generally the first cause of apologies in the morning, and often the last cause in the evening as well, for the Bingleys either could not or would not make them behave in a way befitting children of ten years and six years of age. Mr. Bennet quickly became accustomed to the children joining in the conversation of the adults around them whenever they chose, whether they had been invited to do so or not. If he sat quietly in the parlor with Jane while she held her infant, they were sure to run in to show her some childish treasure they had found outside without asking permission first. If he walked with Bingley outside, discussing the addition of a well-house to the property, they were sure to play a mad game of tag around his feet, laughing and yelling at each other so much that Thomas could not understand a word Bingley had said. In short, he thought, though they were both delightful and affectionate, they were also the most thoroughly undisciplined children he had seen in some time.

The servants, too, were a source of many apologies, and at first Thomas was at a loss to understand why. There were certainly enough of them to maintain a small garrison in good order, if they had understood their work and applied themselves readily. But they did not. It appeared to Thomas that Jane did many things that rightfully should have been carried out by the servants themselves, and since she was only one person, there were some tasks which were not carried out at all. Thomas accepted his daughter's regrets for the occasional lack of fresh water in the wash basin of his room, for the heavy layer of mud that built up on his shoes and was never removed, and even for the dirty linens that should have been cleaned but came back almost as dirty as before.

And where was Bingley in all of this, he wondered. He was the husband and father of the home; why did he not intervene? Surely he could see what needed to be done? But Bingley spent the greater part of each day out of the house. If he noticed these irregularities, he gave no sign of it.

A week after his arrival, Thomas was surprised to be interrupted while he was sitting in Bingley's study, translating a passage of Homer's Odyssey into English for the sheer challenge of it, and avoiding the sounds of Sophie and Anne playing battledore and shuttlecock in the drawing room. Jane, he supposed, was in the nursery with Fanny. Bingley entered the study with his steward, followed by the household servants, and Thomas realized that they were there for the first quarter day, to receive their wages. But it was remarkably late—Lady Day had been seven days past.

Bingley approached Mr. Bennet and asked, if it was not too much trouble, and if it did not cause him any inconvenience, could he please have the use of the desk where Mr. Bennet now sat, in order to have room to look at his account book and settle up with his staff? Thomas nodded and moved aside gladly, wondering at his son in law's diffident, anxious manner. Bingley did not ask his father in law to leave the room, and Thomas thoughtfully set aside his translation so that he could watch unobserved, determined to watch and learn what he could.

Bingley opened the ledger that his steward, Peters, gave him, and fluttered through the pages nervously until he came to the last rows of entries, which he sat studying carefully for a brief time. At length he addressed Peters:

"Are all the servants accounted for? This includes both the household staff and the gardeners, the grooms and whatnot?" He waved a hand rather vaguely in the air.

Peters nodded, and Thomas wondered exactly how many servants Bingley employed. Did Bingley himself even know?

"And these wages—they are the usual amounts?"

"Plus the generous addition which you normally make," Peters answered. Bingley responded in his usual obliging, eager way.

"It is nothing, nothing at all. I am very glad to be able to do something for each of them, and it is certain that they have all earned their wages, and more besides. It is the very least any man can do, to care for the ones who care for him and his family. It is, indeed, a gentleman's obligation."

A general nod and murmur of approval came from the direction of the assembled servants, and Bingley looked at them with a pleased expression. "Well, if all is in order, then let us begin. I apologize for the delay in distributing your wages, but there were some little matters that had to be made right before we could proceed. I thank you for your patience."

Nobody objected, and the servants were called forward one by one. Bingley greeted each one, said a word or two of appreciation for their labor, and then counted out their wages into their hand. Thomas noted that Bingley was, indeed, a most generous employer. No wonder the servants were content to wait an extra week, with such amounts to enjoy later!

When the little ceremony was over and Peters had retreated to some unknown place with the account book, Bingley recalled Mr. Bennet's presence and offered him a glass of port. They drank to each other's health, and then Thomas asked, "Was there a reason for the delay in settling up for the quarter, Bingley?"

Bingley smiled in his usual genial way, but Thomas thought he saw a troubled expression in his eyes for a moment. "Nothing so terribly unusual. Peters had a bit of a family emergency and had to be gone several days last week. We could not settle up properly until today."

"A family emergency? Somebody sick, I take it?"

"His mother," Bingley answered. "Her illness often occurs at this time of year."

"And the tenants, I suppose, are as regular as ever in their payments? No problems collecting?"

"I believe all is as it should be." He took a last sip of port and set the empty glass down on the desk. "I am quite certain that everything is at it should be, indeed." So saying, he left the study without another word.

Thomas recalled the scene the next day while he walked around the garden, trailed by Sophie and Anne and their ever-indulgent governess, and noted many things he had seen before but never really looked at.

The same kinds of issues which afflicted the inside of the house were reflected on the outside of it. Jane's favored pale pink rose bushes were overgrown with weeds already, barely into April, despite the presence of at least two gardeners. The vines which had seemed so attractive to him at first as they curled up the side of the house were likewise overgrown, beginning to cover up a window or two on the second story and threatening several more. Several of the windows bore rain streaks which had never been removed. And the dull blue paint of the shutters was beyond dull—it was in need of being completely done over.

Thomas had liked to say, over the years, that Jane and Bingley were so complying that nothing would ever be resolved on, and so easy that every servant would cheat them. Was that the problem in the home? Were their inherently kind, easygoing natures the source of the general neglect? He wondered if his jesting words all those years ago had turned out to be more prophetic than amusing.

He asked the staff a few random questions in an off-hand way, and had at least one of his suspicions confirmed. Most of the servants in the house were related to each other, and at least half had been hired after a relative already in service had plied a tale of woe on Jane or Bingley, or both. Their wages, too, were far and away higher than was customary in that area of the country, and Thomas could see for himself that neither of the Bingleys had the resolve necessary to hold their employees accountable for the work that was not done, or that was done poorly.

A similar lack of resolve was on display with the children. Jane tried to curb their spirits and teach them proper manners, but with so many other demands on her attention her efforts were usually in vain. If she could have exerted herself to make the nurse or governess do their duty, things might have been different, but Jane had never prevailed on anyone in her life, and she was not likely to start now; neither was Bingley. And with neither master nor mistress able to really manage the staff, the staff managed themselves, but did not do much of anything else.

He saw much to concern him, but nothing that would justify interference, especially after Bingley's curt dismissal in the study. He and Jane had already spent a decade together in marriage, and if they had not settled already how best to handle their household, then they likely never would. Thomas closed his eyes to what he could not change, tried not to stare at the children or the servants whenever they demonstrated the lack of leadership in the home, and became accustomed to rather muddy shoes, a very dusty parlor, and grandchildren whose enthusiasm occasionally put the more fragile items in the house into some danger.

Thomas was surprised, several days later, to receive a letter from his fourth daughter. He was not due to visit her for another two months. Kitty rarely wrote to anyone and barely at all to him; yet today her painstaking writing filled two pages.

_Dear Papa,_

_I have exciting news to share with you, news which is certain to raise your spirits at such a despondent time in your life._

Despondent? Thomas snorted in disgust. When had Kitty acquired such a flair for dramatics? The loss of Fanny had certainly surprised him. He had probably even been a little depressed. But he was not despondent!

_You may have heard me mention my husband's brother Frederick, who is a clerk in a law office in the town of D-, some thirty miles from here. He is an intelligent, good-natured and respected gentleman in the neighborhood, and he has taken to calling on my husband several times a month, whenever he can leave the office. But to be truthful he pays little enough attention to either my husband or me, and all his attention to my sister Mary. In fact, for some two months now he has been courting her! _

Thomas felt his eyebrows jump nearly to his hairline. He slowly lowered himself to a chair, the better to absorb this surprising development, and continued reading.

_I do not quite understand what he sees in my sister, but there is no accounting for taste. _

_As the son of a gentleman Frederick has an independent income of four hundred pounds per annum, besides the income from his practice of law. He is a highly eligible match for Mary, whose only love is for books and whose desire for luxuries is minimal. If you were to meet him I feel certain you would agree._

_When Frederick heard that you were coming to stay with us, he expressed an interest in being introduced to your acquaintance. Therefore we invited him to visit with us while you are here, along with his aunt, Miss Lucy Masterson (an agreeable woman- I know you will enjoy her company). When Frederick takes the opportunity to ask a significant question, we hope you will answer in the affirmative._

Thomas had never felt that Mary would ever be in any danger of being overwhelmed by suitors. Between her unremarkable physical appearance, her solemn, moralizing nature, and now her relatively advanced age of eight and twenty, an opportunity to for his daughter to settle permanently in her own home would indeed lift his spirits. If Frederick was all that Kitty described, Thomas, too, had to wonder at the sudden good luck of his most unfortunate daughter.

_The only problem with all this is that Frederick must travel out of the country later this summer, and if you do not meet him soon I think you might not meet for many months. _

_I am simply wild for Frederick to make his addresses to Mary. I know she is my sister and she must live somewhere, but why must it be with us? We do have two other sisters, after all, who might be willing to take her in. They know what a trial it is to live with Mary! _

_You will hardly believe Mary when you see her for yourself! She hardly quotes sermons at us any more when Frederick is in the room, and you will not believe the eyes she makes at him! She flirts almost as much as Lydia used to! I can hardly stand to be in the same room with them sometimes._

_I wish you would consider coming to us sooner than planned, so that you can meet Frederick and let him ask for your blessing. if you are agreeable, I will ask Earnest to send our carriage for you in a fortnight instead of six weeks. Please let me know as soon as possible if you can come to us then. I am _

_Your obedient daughter,_

_Catherine Masterson_

Thomas briefly tried to picture Mary in his mind, playing the coquette with a suitor, her eyes widening owlishly behind the impossibly thick lenses of her spectacles while she fluttered her eyelashes. It was only slightly easier than picturing a perceptive and intelligent Mr. Collins.

"Jane!" he called, rising and moving towards the sitting room, where he had last heard his daughter's voice speaking to the children. Jane emerged at once holding a squirming Sophie firmly by one hand and a pouting Anne on her hip. She looked harried.

"Jane, permit me to read to you this letter from your sister Kitty. I think you will be vastly entertained. It would seem that your one remaining unmarried sibling may soon be resigning the name she has borne all her life."

"Papa?" Jane looked at him questioningly, her eyes wide. He wondered if she thought he was beginning to lose his mind.

"Here, I will read to you from the beginning. It should explain all." Obediently Jane remained standing, still clutching her children to her, while Thomas read the letter out loud. Halfway through the recitation Sophie managed to make her escape, pulling her hand away from her mother's and disappearing around a corner without a word. Jane remained where she was.

"What think you of that?" Thomas asked when he had finished. "Remarkable, is it not, that Mary should have a suitor after all these years?"

"I do not understand," Jane replied. "Who is this Frederick? When did he start calling on Mary?"

"Did you not hear a thing I said?"

"Forgive me, papa, I was not able to attend properly."

"And no wonder, considering the noise coming from that child," Thomas commented irritably, looking at Anne, for the girl had begun to whine, begging her mother to let her follow her older sister. Jane tried ineffectually to shush her. "Frederick is Kitty's husband's brother, and he has expressed an interest in your sister. Kitty wants me to go to her home as soon as possible in order to give him my consent. I hope you do not mind."

"Mind? Of course not. KItty has wanted Mary to be in her own home for months now."

The long-suffering father snorted. "No more than _I_ wanted all those years!"

"Papa, that is not kind. She merely wants what is best for Mary." Thomas flushed at the gentle rebuke. Jane had always been his most gracious daughter, determined to see the best in those around her, and this was a trait she had not learned from her father. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find Sophie before she has a chance to cause more mischief."

"Why? What has she done this time?"

"She and Anne were playing spillikins in the parlor and they refuse to pick the pieces up. I have been trying this half hour to make them obey."

There was something in Jane's voice that made Thomas really look at her for the first time. He frowned as he took in the lines of fatigue plainly visible on her face.

"Jane, you are overtired, and that child is too big to be carried about in such a way. You should rest. Call the children's nurse and go lie down."

"The nurse is with Fanny. I am perfectly well, papa; it is nothing I am not used to."

"Jane, child, didn't you hear me? You need to get off your feet. If the nurse is not available then call the governess and make her do her duty for the children."

"She is off today to attend to a sick friend. Perhaps—" she looked at him apologetically, then at the young girl in her arms, now weeping petulantly. "If you might find Sophie and bring her back here for me, that would be a great help. She likes to hide from me when she has been naughty."

"Call one of the servants instead," he responded, annoyed that she was not taking his advice. "I did not finish raising five daughters just so I could play nursemaid to yours." He turned and began to walk away, intending to go to his bedroom and write an answer to Kitty, but he hesitated before leaving.

"Jane, are you sure that you do not mind my leaving you early to go to your sister's?"

"We do not mind in the least. Of course you must go to Kitty and Mary if they want you."

Thomas wished that she might show _some _regret over losing his company sooner than planned. "If you need me, I am happy to stay," he offered, but Jane was not looking at him. Her attention was given entirely to her daughter. "Very well, I shall tell Kitty to make the necessary arrangements. And by the by," he added, "if you cannot find Sophie indoors, you might try looking for her behind the servant's privy. That is where we always found Lydia."

It was evident that there was no more place for Thomas at Vinings than there had been at Pemberley. Jane was busy raising her children, Bingley wanted no assistance with the estate, and nobody had time for his thoughts on anything. But Kitty, at least, wanted him! Or at least she felt she needed him, which was nearly the same thing. In the privacy of his room he took up his pen and quill.

Since her mother's death Kitty had started to use her full Christian name instead of the family name she had gone by all her life. Not everyone had gracefully accepted the change.

_Dear daughter,_

_If Mary and this Frederick Masterson wish to marry, they need neither my permission nor my blessing. But Mary in love is sure to be a spectacle, and I would not miss it for the world. You may send your carriage for me in a fortnight. I am_

_Your affectionate father,_

_Thomas Bennet_

_N.B. You may as well sign your letters Kitty, for as your mother never called you Catherine, neither shall I._


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas' fourth son in law was Earnest in both name and manner. Thomas had always thought so and seeing Earnest now gave him no reason to change his opinion.

Earnest Masterson, aged eight and twenty years, had a perpetually serious and inquiring air about him. The oldest of two brothers, he had always been intended to take over the family holdings upon reaching his majority, and Thomas was certain that young Earnest had taken on that role with all the enthusiasm expected in an oldest son. No doubt as a young lad he had been trailing about with his father, collecting rents and improving fields, for he gave every impression that he could perform every required chore on the estate, and other tasks as well, either in his sleep or with his eyes closed, whichever came first. By the age of twenty Earnest Masterson had been making all the significant decisions regarding the family holdings, and when his father died several years later, the property transitioned to the new owner without anyone noticing much of a change.

By contrast Kitty was very much as her name sounded—superficially pretty, not bothered by too many serious thoughts in her head, and casually affectionate towards those who showed her even a passing affection of their own. She had been neither a terribly bad girl nor a terribly good girl, for to be either monstrously bad or monstrously good required a strength of will she did not have. Thomas was grateful that Earnest had inspired Kitty's affection and then somehow held it long enough to marry her, before she could be led astray by someone with a much worse character.

The couple had dutifully produced the required son, likewise named Earnest, just two years into their marriage. More children did not appear to be forthcoming.

Hazelton was located a full day's ride from Vinings, far enough for the two families not to be pushed into a close association, but not so far that travel between them was difficult. His children, he thought, had made travel between their homes as convenient as could possibly be hoped for.

Earnest, Kitty and Mary were all on hand to greet him when the coach pulled up to the steps of Hazelton, and looking out the window of the coach, Thomas was gratified to see none of the neglect which had been so apparent at Vinings. Each clapboard of the house was painted in an excruciating bright shade of white, each shutter was perfectly aligned outside its assigned window, and even the very pebbles of the road in front of the house seemed to have been raked into exquisite order. If a fly had dared to land on a dormer window it would no doubt have flown away immediately, disheartened by the lack of any visible sustenance.

Thomas greeted Earnest with a firm handshake, kissed Kitty, and nodded in Mary's general direction after she curtsied to him, which seemed to be all the acknowledgment she desired. With this brief ritual completed, and after the customary inquiries about his travel, he was drawn into the house.

"I hope you will not mind your room, papa," Kitty told him as she led him upstairs. "It is the second largest spare room we have, and it is on the front of the house so that you can see out to the road whenever you want. Of course if Mary were not here you would have the best room of all. Frederick and Miss Lucy will be in rooms across from you when they come."

"Are they not here already? I thought I understood from your letter that they would be."

"Oh, there was some slight delay. They will not arrive until the day after tomorrow."

Thomas' room was as clean and well-ordered as everything else he had already seen. A matching pitcher and bowl had been set out on his dresser at a precise angle to the towels alongside them. The pillows on the bed were plumped to an identical height, and even the curtains at the window seemed as though they would be reluctant to move out of their rigidly correct alignment. Not a speck of dirt or dust was to be seen anywhere. Either Earnest's zeal for utter perfection had rubbed off on his wife, or the Mastersons had hired the most fastidious housekeeper Thomas had ever seen.

"I say, Kitty, are you certain you wish to allow me to sleep in this room? I am afraid I might leave a stray hair on the pillow case, or commit some other mortal transgression in a room so clean."

"Don't be silly, Papa," Kitty answered scornfully. "This is only a guest room, so it is used very little and hardly ever needs cleaning. And please_ do_ try to remember that my name is Catherine now, not Kitty."

Thomas harrumphed after Kitty when she had left the room, and made a point of knocking the dirt off of his shoes as thoroughly as possible and leaving them in the middle of the floor.

He did not see Mary, the object of his immediate curiosity, again until they all met at the table for the evening meal. It was an informal family dinner, with no guests besides himself. As the food was passed around he began to ask her about her suitor.

"Tell me about this Frederick Masterson of yours, Mary. Do you believe he compares favorably with your sister's husbands?"

"My brother recently took a position as a clerk in the law office of C-, in the next little village." Earnest had answered instead of Mary. "He will serve the requisite number of years and then, probably, graduate to solicitor."

"He is well able to support a wife, then? And perhaps a family as well?" Thomas looked at Mary, but she was dishing potatoes onto her plate. She did not answer.

"He is more than able," Earnest replied again. "He has a promising career with an established concern, and he is diligent and hard working. You will be satisfied by him in every particular."

Thomas was still looking at Mary, waiting for her to join in the conversation, but she had not even glanced up from her plate. She seemed uninterested in adding her comments, even though the topic concerned her so particularly.

"Mary will not talk about Frederick," Kitty said in her complaining way, seeing her father's inquiring expression. "She will not talk about _anything _beyond what she is learning from those books of hers. I suppose it is up to me to tell you that Frederick is terribly clever and quite handsome besides. His tutors could not praise him enough, and he finished at the top of his class. Really, Mary, you might speak up and say something about him yourself!"

Mary passed the potatoes on and finally deigned to coolly respond. "Mr. Masterson's intellect is stimulating, and I am sure he does his tutors much credit. But I believe my grasp of equity law, as opposed to statutory law, is superior to his understanding of those same topics."

Thomas raised an eyebrow as he looked first at Mary, then at Kitty.

"But Frederick is an exceedingly handsome gentleman, do you not agree?" Kitty cried. "Though he is not as handsome as _my_ husband, yet he would do credit to any of my sister's husbands."

Mary considered this gravely. "His features appear to be correctly proportioned," she finally allowed. "They are not displeasing."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Lord, Mary, you are so droll!"

The possibilities for humor here were endless. "A superior understanding of statutory law," Thomas said, "and well-proportioned features? All of this in one man? He sounds like an ideal husband for our Mary, especially if she finds him not displeasing. I have scarcely ever heard a better recommendation for a life partner."

A slight flush had appeared on Mary's cheeks. "I do find his conversation highly educational," she added gravely, "and time spent with him is not a punishment."

"Better and better! There are few couples married today, I believe, who can say that time spent with their spouse is not a punishment."

Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Kitty broke in. "You need not be so missish, Mary. You are not a young girl any more. You may admit your feelings for the man whenever you want. _We_ will not care."

"Whatever sentiments I may feel are irrelevant. I have never relied too strongly on mere emotions as a foundation for decisions about my future. A strong intellect will carry one farther in life, and prove more practical, than mere sentimentality."

"Are you saying," Thomas asked with a certain amount of disbelief, "that you intend to marry without any regard for romantic feelings whatsoever?"

"At my age, and considering my position in life," Mary answered, "I would be unwise to insist on waiting for someone who can completely inspire my affections. Nor do I find affection entirely necessary for marriage. Many couples who unite in a wave of passionate feelings later part company, or else make themselves miserable with disappointed hopes. Sentiment, it seems to me, can be as much a hindrance as a blessing. I hope I am never carried away by my feelings."

"I think you need not worry about _that_ overmuch," Thomas replied dryly, exchanging an expressive look with Earnest and Kitty. He let the subject drop, but he continued to observe Mary closely. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a self-consciousness in her manner which was different than anything he had ever observed in her previously. He thought her feelings were probably engaged much more than she was willing to admit to the rest of her family.

Kitty felt the same way. "Mary talks that way only to vex me," she told her father later, when they had a moment of privacy. "I promise you, papa, she is truly very different when Frederick is in the room. It is something you will have to see for yourself in order to believe. She is completely smitten with the man!"

"If most women were to speak of their suitor the way your sister speaks of hers, we would never believe in the existence of romantic love. This being Mary, I think it is more likely that she_ is_ enamored, and chooses to express it in her own unique way."

"She will never admit to loving anything," Kitty said plaintively, "unless it is her books, or perhaps her music. What noise she makes on the instrument all day long! And she sings, too. I hope she will take the pianoforte with her when she goes, for we have no use for it."

Thomas considered this for a moment. "Is Frederick truly a sensible man? Will Mary be happy if she marries him?"

Kitty shrugged. "Frederick is a scholar and she can speak intelligently with him. I think perhaps that is all she really cares about."

"Will he be able to support her and any children they might have with what he earns as a clerk?"

"Earnest says that his income, together with Mary's marriage portion, will support them well, at least until he makes solicitor in a few years. _We_ will even help support them until that time if need be. Oh Lord! To have her stop moralizing constantly in the house!"

Thomas nodded, satisfied, and decided that he would simply have to wait until the younger Mr. Masterson appeared in person before he could learn more of what he wished to know. it was past time for Mary to be in a home of her own. Whether she held any of what was commonly called affection for Frederick or not, by all accounts he was an acceptable candidate for her hand, and if he did make an offer for her, Thomas would be glad to be relieved of any responsibility for his plainest, most unremarkable daughter.

Two days were spent in quiet enjoyment of Hazelton, with Kitty, Mary, and Earnest, and of course his grandson, who followed him about like the proverbial shadow, accompanied by his nurse. Little Earnest, just three years old, was every bit as determined and purposeful as his namesake, and besides this, he was blessedly quiet for one so young. Or perhaps it was simply that Thomas was enjoying the respite from the high-spirited Sophie and Anne.

He found great pleasure in going with both of the Earnests in walks around the small farm and attached fields, holding his grandson's hand while the elder Earnest spoke with tenants, measured the amount of topsoil on his fields, and considered where to erect a new fence. Little Earnest looked trustingly up at his grandfather at the times when his father was most distracted, often handing him a small stone, a feather, or some other treasure he had just discovered. Thomas would gravely inspect the newest acquisition, make an appropriate comment in its praise, and then carefully return it to its owner, who beamed in pleasure. Looking into the child's face at such times, Thomas fancied that he saw his own features reflected there.

If only he and Fannie had had a son, he thought for the hundredth time, the entail could have been cut off. Fannie might not have been so nervous, so invariably silly, without the pressure of having to make good marriages for five daughters. The strain on her might not have taken such a toll on them both. And despite the unexpected turn of events, he himself would still be living at Longbourn instead of trying to find a new place in the world. The very thought of the verdant trees that surrounded Longbourn was enough to cause a sudden pang in his chest, and he pushed aside the image as quickly as possible.

_**Thank you to everyone who has commented on this story so far! I find it difficult to respond to everyone personally, but I do read and re-read every word! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. -Elaine**_


	5. Chapter 5

On the third day of his visit, in the late afternoon, Thomas heard a conveyance of some kind approach the house while he was resting in his chambers. Daring to pull aside one of the curtains, he looked out in time to see a gig discharging a man and woman together on the front steps of Hazelton. These, he was sure, would be Frederick and Lucy Masterson. The angle of his view from the window did not allow for a clear view of either person except for the barest of outlines, so he was left only to conjecture until dinner time, when they all met together and were introduced. His assumption was then proven correct.

Frederick Masterson was a man of medium height, with his brother's fair coloring and light eyes, but without the characteristic determined air of his elder sibling. He greeted Thomas nervously and smiled shyly at Mary from behind his own rather thick spectacles, but did not seem inclined to be a man of many words. He appeared to be somewhat younger than Mary, perhaps about four and twenty.

Miss Lucy Masterson, the maiden aunt of her family, was closer to Thomas' own age than the ancient dowager he had expected. She had a refined, stately air that was occasionally belied by a musical laugh, and her bright eyes were set in a pleasing countenance. Kitty asked her father to take Miss Lucy in to dinner, and he offered his arm without thinking much about it, more absorbed in observing Mary's mannerisms in the presence of her supposed lover than on the lady beside him.

Mary had taken Frederick's arm readily enough when he offered it to her, and she looked up at him with her usual grave expression. But the look in her eyes was unlike anything Thomas had ever seen in her before.

"I look forward to continuing our discussion of the works of Christopher Wren, Mr. Masterson," she said, in a tone quite different from her usual heavy, pedantic manner. It was not as flirtatious as Lydia might have been, or as witty as Elizabeth, but it drew attention in its own way.

"I have not found the information you asked me for," Frederick stammered, seeming overwhelmed by her attention. "I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."

"There is no need to apologize. I am sure you were most diligent in your efforts," Mary answered gently. She looked down for a moment, and then glanced back up at him again with cheeks overspread with a bare blush. Thomas was momentarily frozen in shock. Had Mary really just fluttered her eyelashes? Had she actually _simpered_ at her young caller? He could scarcely believe his eyes.

"Perhaps after dinner, you would allow me to play a Mozart set for you instead," she offered serenely.

Thomas saw Frederick swallow hard. "It would be my honor to listen to whatever you wish to play. And afterwards," he added, still struggling for composure, "we might talk about the venues in which equity law supersedes common law. You have a most remarkable intellect, Miss Bennet." The pair continued to stare at each other, lost to the rest of the room, until they entered the dining room together and were forced to separate in order to take their seats. Thomas followed them in without a word, but the look he gave Kitty spoke volumes on its own.

Dinner began in the customary way, with various plates making their appearance at the table. The general conversation in the group was light and concentrated mostly on the weather, road conditions, and other unimportant topics. The unacknowledged couple were seated across the table from each other. No words were being exchanged between the two, but there was an abundance of communication in the way they looked at each other, and in the way those looks lingered in the air. Their behavior was everything proper, but a careful observer could see in a moment how matters stood between them.

Thomas watched his daughter in stupefied silence, marveling at the marked change in Mary since the last time they had been together. The first course was nearly over and she had yet to make any ponderous speeches or to lecture on matters where nobody had asked her opinion. Instead she commented agreeably on the statements others were making around the table, said nothing of herself, and was nearly as charming as either of her older sisters had been during their courtships. Not that Mary would ever have Jane's beauty, or Elizabeth's sparkling wit. But her new air of grave dignity, unhampered by pretension or forward displays, was making her far more appealing to the entire group than she had ever been in her life.

Thomas' private ponderings were interrupted when the lady he had escorted to dinner addressed him without warning.

"Mr. Bennet," Miss Masterson said, speaking to him for the first time since coming to the table, "I have been given to understand that you are recently bereaved."

Thomas reluctantly pulled his attention away from observations of his daughter and her suitor. "Yes, madam, I am."

"And you are recently removed from your family home as well."

"I left there six months ago."

"You must feel the loss keenly. To be separated from home at our time in life, when new friends and new patterns of living do not come easily, is difficult."

The unexpected sympathy made Thomas push down a sudden pang in his chest. "My home was called Longbourn, in Hertfordshire. You would never have heard of it, I am sure."

"You are mistaken. I have heard much of it from Mrs. Masterson. She speaks of it as the embodiment of all that is perfection."

"Does she indeed?" Thomas' mouth twisted. "I had no idea Kitty was so fond of the place."

"She spoke of it so warmly and with so much detail that I can almost picture it in my mind."

"Did she really?"

"I feel almost as though I have been there myself."

Thomas took a sip of wine before answering. "It is well that she did, for rest assured you would never have known anything of it otherwise. It is not a famous home, and it had nothing to recommend it beyond the usual charms of a small country manor." He waved a hand dismissively.

"On the contrary. It was the home of the Bennet family of Hertfordshire, and therefore it must have had more than the usual share of charm."

The words were nothing more than the common, meaningless sort of flattery often on display at dinner parties, but they were pleasing to hear just the same. "Few people speak of the charms of the Bennet family. We are known more for our diverting behavior than our social graces."

"I must disagree with you. Mrs. Masterson is everything delightful, and time spent with Miss Mary is never wasted. I do not know all of your daughters, of course, but I am sure they are all a credit to your upbringing."

"I am happy that you think so."

Lucy did not require any further response, and after a minute she turned back to Earnest, seated on her other side. Thomas felt relief that the short interview was over. He had no interest in making awkward dinner conversation. He was sure that Mary's happiness was within reach; his only role now would be to wait for Frederick's petition and then give his consent. His final responsibility as a father was nearly upon him, and then he would go on to Lydia's house or wherever he might be shuffled out of the way next.

He subsided back into his own thoughts but was roused from them after only a short time by overhearing the conversation between Lucy and her oldest nephew. Lucy was presenting a spirited defense of one of her favorite authors, and Thomas listened with growing interest and then admiration as she listed the man's virtues over Earnest's objections. Such an argument could only make him think of her more highly, for she was defending someone he knew well.

"Forgive me," he finally interjected, just as Earnest turned away to answer a question from Kitty. Thomas focused his attention on Lucy instead. "I could not help overhearing you mention the name of Blake. How long have you been familiar with his writings?"

The lady turned to him with a smile.

"Familiar?" she repeated. "I am not sure I could call myself _familiar _with the man; I do not have the level of knowledge of his works which would entitle me to claim that term. But I know him a little. Perhaps it is better to say that we have a passing acquaintance."

"It is a pleasure to meet with anyone who knows his work," Thomas responded, forgetting that he had not intended to be sociable. "Few can say they have even heard of the man, and fewer still who know him admire him."

"I admire him tremendously, and think it a pity that his work is not more widely accepted."

"Very singular of you, madam; quite singular. There is a reason he is not better known. Some think him mad, you know."

"Mad? He is not mad." Lucy shook her head emphatically. "He is misunderstood. Some of his views go against convention, of course, but there are some people for whom anything novel must be suspect. They do not appreciate what they do not understand."

"That is an interesting theory, madam. In another circumstance I might even agree with you. But his views are more than novel; they are radical. Many consider him a heretic."

"As does my nephew," she acknowledged with a knowing smile. "But Blake says that self-denial and devotion to God should not come from the force of obligation, but only of one's own free will. Surely there is nothing heretical in _that_."

Thomas gave a short laugh, amused by her interpretation. "There are many good reasons why Blake has earned the title of heretic, but most of them do not bear repeating in this company."

"_You_ seem to enjoy his works." Lucy observed, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes. "Do you share his beliefs?"

"Not at all. Reading Blake is a pleasure simply because of the beauty of the words he uses. I can enjoy the intellectual stimulation of teasing out the meanings of his lines without stooping to become a heretic myself."

Lucy nodded, appearing satisfied with his answer, and Thomas took a moment to observe his companion more closely. He had not paid much attention to Lucy when he brought her in to dinner, but now that he had more leisure to study her, he could see several things he had not noticed at first. Her dark hair was barely touched with grey, her lips were fine and full, and her eyes were a striking shade of blue when the light struck them a certain way. It suddenly struck him that she was a remarkably handsome woman.

The servants came in to lay the next course before he could finish his appraisal, and conversation was impossible for a minute or two. But when the servants had withdrawn, Lucy addressed him again.

"Since you are so fond of reading, Mr. Bennet, I wonder if you might tell me who penned these happy words: 'To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labor tends.' "

Thomas recognized the quote at once. "Ah! You have moved from the heretical Blake to the very conventional Johnson."

"He is perhaps my favorite author of all, next to Boswell."

"Boswell! Johnson!" Thomas shook his head doubtfully. "I find that hard to believe."

"Why? Because they are widely known and well regarded?" Any reproof in her words was belied by the amused look in her eyes.

"No, because women these days are reading Radcliffe whenever they can. They are perfectly mad for her; it is practically a disease." He smiled at her triumphantly.

Lucy laughed and was forced to admit that his statement was true. "But is no disease with me," she added. "If I were so infected, I should want no cure other than to read works by either Johnson or Boswell to be entirely healed."

"How do those men capture your attention?" Thomas asked, his interest now thoroughly aroused. He had almost completely forgotten Mary and Frederick. It was astonishing to meet someone who favored not only Blake, but also Boswell and Johnson, three of the authors whom he himself enjoyed most. "Surely you do not stay awake at night working through Johnson's dictionary."

"I need not rely on such a prosaic work; I need only _The Ramblers. _In _The Ramblers_ Johnson offers fine, stout food for the soul and provokes one to introspective thinking. I should infinitely prefer this to the vain imaginings of ghouls and spirits haunting every corner, as Mrs. Radcliffe's works do."

"Not every lady would agree with you. In my experience most gentlewomen prefer to be entertained rather than instructed." He watched her closely, wondering how she would react.

" 'Men know that women are an overmatch for them, and therefore they choose the weakest or the most ignorant,' " Lucy retorted with an arch look. "_You_ have simply chosen the wrong woman." She then turned away to address a question from Kitty, leaving Thomas with a keen sense of loss.

The dinner began to come to an end shortly after that, and Thomas was sorely disappointed to realize that Earnest and Frederick were rising from their seats to separate to another room. By custom he had to go with them, but he would much rather have found a reason to continue speaking to the woman at his side.

He had to spend an hour or so with the gentlemen before they rejoined the ladies and when they did, Lucy was in close conversation with Kitty. There was no further opportunity to speak with her that night. Thomas was forced to spend the rest of the evening watching Lucy's brilliant blue eyes from across the room, hearing her musical laugh from time to time, and wishing he might take Kitty's place at her side.

_**So, what do you think? Is Thomas Bennet on the path to true love or is he bound to be disappointed again? I love to hear your thoughts! You always have such encouraging comments! I can't wait to see what you think of this chapter! -Elaine**_

_**P.S. For those of you who enjoy Christian fiction, check out my newest story here on ffanfiction, **__**The Greatest of These.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Summary - Mr. Bennet has left the Bingley's home and traveled to the home of Kitty and her husband in order to give consent to Mary and her suitor, Frederick. But he is soon distracted by making the acquaintance of Frederick's maiden aunt, Miss Lucy Masterson.**_

"How did you like Miss Masterson, papa?" was the first question out of Kitty's mouth when Thomas came downstairs for breakfast the next day. By happy chance they were the first two people to enter the room, so there were a few minutes for conversation without being overheard.

Thomas wondered if Kitty was making idle talk or if she had noticed his conversation with Lucy the night before. "Well enough," he answered coolly, not wanting to arouse his daughter's interest. "We spoke of authors, nothing more."

Kitty looked at him slyly. "Is she not agreeable? Did I not tell you she would be an interesting companion?"

"If you say she is agreeable I am sure she must be. I would never contradict any opinion of yours." He poured himself a cup of tea and picked out a plate of fruit before sitting at the table. Kitty frowned at his evasion, but he was not in a mood to humor her disappointment. "I was more interested in seeing how Mary and her young man got on together. They are, of course, the reason I am here."

Kitty's face immediately lit up again. "Are they not the most absurd couple? They moon over each other endlessly whenever they are in the same room. I hope Frederick will to speak to you very soon."

"You did say in your letter than you believe he wishes to ask my consent."

"So silly! They are both of age; they do not need to ask permission, but you know Mary. She insists on following the formalities."

"If Frederick's demeanor last night is any indication, the formalities will be dispensed with in record time. I have scarcely ever seen a man so smitten."

"He will need all of your encouragement to approach you, papa. He is not a forward man at all."

At that moment Lucy entered the room, and Thomas forgot whatever he was about to say, struck dumb by the attractive picture she made. The blue in her dress picked up and accentuated the blue of her eyes, and the cut of the dress emphasized her womanly figure. It was hard not to stare as she advanced into the room, and he found himself smiling when she turned and looked directly at him, her bright eyes glowing.

After that it was only natural that he step forward to greet her courteously if somewhat awkwardly, and just as natural that he would help her fill her plate and then sit with her while she ate. And when breakfast was finished and Lucy asked if Thomas might possibly show her the parts of Kitty's garden which she had not yet seen, Thomas was only too glad to agree. He felt a little thrill when she placed her hand on his arm, flattered that such a handsome and clever woman would choose him as an escort.

* * *

There followed several delightful days when it was easy to forget why Thomas had come to Hazelton. He forgot that Frederick wanted to speak to him, forgot that Mary's happiness might depend on his actions. He forgot about Jane and Bingley's unsettled household, and the house at Pemberley that was not quite a home. He forgot about everything but Lucy and the unfamiliar feelings she inspired in him.

In their morning walks they quickly discovered that their preferences in books were nearly identical; their opinions on music and art likewise coincided. Lucy listened attentively when he spoke and responded with careful questions of her own. If their thoughts on any subject differed she could be persuaded to his point of view with only a little effort on his part. In nearly every way that mattered they were thoroughly in sympathy. Altogether he was astonished by the ease of their intimacy and by the speed at which their friendship was developing into something more.

It was too soon, he thought to himself. It had only been seven months since Fanny's death. Surely he could not be smitten again in such a short time! But then Lucy would catch his eye with one of her winsome smiles, and he would banish these unwelcome thoughts back to whatever unnamed place they came from.

"How is it that you never married?" he dared to ask one afternoon as they walked together, her arm tucked securely into his, outside the house. The question was a trifle forward, but he had to know how such a delightful lady had been completely overlooked by the gentlemen of her neighborhood.

She shrugged lightly. "My father was a careless man who took little thought for the future. I am as you see me, Mr. Bennet—a poor relation, dependent on the kindness of my friends and family. I have little to recommend me and I am too modest to put myself forward the way I have seen other women do."

He felt an unaccustomed surge of pity. "Your modesty does you credit."

"Perhaps; but one cannot live on credit." Lucy smiled sadly. "Modesty does not provide attachment, security, or independence."

"Are those the things you crave the most?"

"Certainly; are they not what we all wish for? I am certain I could be satisfied with nothing more than a small, comfortable home of my own; but perhaps it is not meant to be. Poor relations must be content with what they are given. We have no right to ask for more."

"It would not surprise me if you found yourself in different circumstances one day," he dared to suggest, bringing his gloved hand on top of hers as it rested on his arm. He felt her hand press his in return.

"I would like that very much."

* * *

On the same day as this conversation with Lucy, Kitty sought out her father's presence.

It was one of the rare occasions when Thomas had uninterrupted time to himself. A heavy rain outside was keeping all the occupants of Hazelton from walking out. Earnest and Frederick had been occupied with their own pursuits all day, and Lucy had announced that was retiring to her room in order to write letters. Left to his own devices, Thomas sought to entertain himself by helping himself to Earnest's small library. It was there that Kitty found him, addressing him without preamble.

"Papa, I need to speak to you."

"And a good afternoon to you too," he answered sarcastically, not looking up from the book he had been trying to read for the past half hour. Visions of Lucy with her bright eyes kept intruding on the pages of _Childe Harold_, interfering with his concentration. Though the visions themselves were quite agreeable, they were still annoying when they reminded him that there were some times when separation was absolutely necessary. "I am quite at my leisure any time you wish. Please proceed."

"I need to know if Frederick has spoken to you yet."

"About what?"

"Mary, of course."

Thomas affected innocence. "Mary? What about her?"

"Do not pretend not to understand. I need to know if Frederick has asked you for permission to marry her."

"You would be the first to know if he did," Thomas answered laconically. "Or the second, I suppose, after Mary herself."

"Papa!" Kitty fairly stamped a foot on the ground in impatience. "Are you sure he has not said anything?"

"My dear child." Thomas let the book fall slightly and looked at her over the top of it. "Frederick speaks to me quite often. He asks me how I do each morning, and he bids me a good night every time I retire for the evening. These are the normal conventions followed by most people in polite society, and your sister's suitor has followed them in every respect."

"But is that all?"

"I conscientiously believe so. Why do you ask?"

"It has been four whole days since he and Miss Lucy arrived, and still nothing has happened!"

"Nothing happened! How can you say nothing has happened! In those four days you have held a dinner party, your husband and Frederick and I have gone hunting together, and your sister has not quoted from Fordyce even once. I would call all of those things significant events."

"Oh, papa, you are simply the worst! Frederick is supposed to leave in a week, and he _must_ speak to you before he goes!"

Kitty was becoming too much like her mother for Thomas' comfort. "Is he aware of your requirements for his schedule? Perhaps you should communicate them to him."

At Kitty's sound of frustration Thomas sat up straighter and looked at her more seriously. "These things follow their own course, Kitty. Frederick will speak to me whenever he is ready. Fretting over it before then will do you no good."

"But I believe he is afraid to speak to you."

"Afraid? Why should he be afraid of me?"

"Because you always look so fierce, as if you do not wish to be disturbed."

"That is true; I do _not_ wish to be disturbed. But my wishes seems to make no difference in cases of this sort. You have my permission to tell Frederick that he may speak to me at his will. Perhaps you should remind him that four other suitors asked me if they could marry one of my daughters, and all of them lived to tell the tale. He will not be any different."

Kitty left the room the way she came, her skirts swirling indignantly behind her, and Thomas sank down behind his book once again.

At dinner that night Thomas studied Frederick and Mary together, wondering at Kitty's sense of urgency.

Was Kitty fretting that Frederick's interest would flag before he could propose and be accepted? If so, there did not seem to be much basis for her concern. He seemed as besotted as ever. Frederick and Mary had spent a good deal of time together since Frederick's arrival, and even now, at the table, they had eyes only for each other. Did Kitty think that perhaps Mary might not accept him once he did propose? That did not seem likely either. No, he decided. Kitty merely wanted to have Mary settled somewhere away from her as soon as possible, and was forwarding every opportunity for that to happen.

But Kitty was right that time was passing quickly. He had been at Hazelton a little over a week already; only six days still remained before he would go on to visit Lydia. Before that time arrived he must try to determine Lucy's feelings for him, decide if he wanted to act on his feelings for her, and ferret out if and when he might be able to see her again. Perhaps he might even go so far as to ask her—but no. It was too soon for that.

He tried to focus his distracted thoughts by bringing his attention back to the object of his desire, seated to his right. She was listening sympathetically as Kitty, across from her, held forth on a new topic of complaint.

"And then they are off to town, as soon as they finish their training, thinking they can find a better position!" Kitty was saying, to a nod of agreement from the other lady. "Finding decent servants is the most difficult part of running a house!"

"I can only imagine the trouble it must cause," Lucy responded. "I have heard my sister mention the same kinds of problems many times."

"Even when they do stay, it is hardly any better for me," Kitty went on. "I have to repeat myself so many times each day that I might as well do the work myself. What I would give for one maid who knew her job and did it well!"

"What work is not accomplished to your satisfaction, my dear?" asked Earnest, who had apparently only just joined the conversation. "Is there a way in which I might help?"

"Oh, it is nothing you would notice," Kitty said fretfully. "No man would. It is only that the table linens are not as white as they were at Longbourn, and the parlor shows dust much more. Nothing is never as clean as I want it to be."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with your home, Kitty." Thomas grimaced, thinking of Vinings. "Believe me, I have seen worse."

"I doubt that _anything _will ever be done to my satisfaction here!" Kitty responded, to which Thomas silently agreed, feeling pity for her servants.

"Perhaps it is merely a difference in perspective," Lucy said soothingly. "Very few homes could compare to Longbourn after all. Anything must pale in comparison to a home with such happy memories as you had growing up."

Thomas smiled appreciatively at her.

"And," she added, almost as an afterthought, "it is perhaps not fair to contrast Longbourn, such a grand home, to the more modest accommodations of Hazelton."

"Grand?" repeated Earnest. "Was Longbourn really so much grander than Hazelton? My memory must be faulty. I thought they were about the same size." He frowned at his aunt.

"Your memory is not wrong," Thomas assured him, wanting to smooth over the unintended snub. "Quite the opposite. Hazelton and Longbourn are pretty much of a piece, I think, but you have more bedrooms here, and of course you have a park, which we lacked. But beyond that they are quite similar."

Thomas caught a quick look of surprise from Lucy. "It was my belief," she said, "that Longbourn was twice the size of Hazelton, and had a corresponding number of servants to maintain it."

"Twice the size?" he half-laughed. "Certainly not, madam. Wherever did you get that idea?"

Lucy looked towards Kitty, whose eyes immediately widened. "I don't think I ever said it was twice the size of Hazelton," she said, a flush overspreading her cheeks. "At least I did not mean to!"

"Indeed?" Lucy looked confused "Perhaps I misheard you."

Kitty's face flushed even more. "I believe I may have said something about it being much bigger than Hazelton," she admitted, "but I did not really mean that. I only meant that it_ felt_ twice as large sometimes." She looked at Lucy appealingly.

The older lady frowned. "Then if there is no park at Longbourn," she asked slowly, "where is the folly you described?"

"The folly!" Thomas exclaimed. He had been watching this exchange with concern, and now he had to speak. "There has never been a folly at Longbourn! Nothing has ever seemed more foolish to me than the practice of creating artificial ruins and replicas of run down castles when England is full to overflowing with them already. I would certainly never pay to have such a thing on my land!" He stared hard at his daughter, who looked helplessly back at him.

Lucy looked between him and Kitty uncertainly. "So there is no folly?"

"No, madam; none at all," Thomas answered, observing her anxiously.

"Nor a pond, either, I suppose?"

"There is a pond, if you walk in the direction of Sir William Lucas's!" Kitty exclaimed. "Maria and I saw it many times! On the far side of his farm is a pond, and if you stand on the edge of it and look across, you can make out what used to be a barn. It has not been in use for years, and it is quite run down! That was what I meant by a folly overlooking a pond." Her voice had risen, and she looked defiantly around the table.

Lucy sat back abruptly in her chair, her own face flushed.

Thomas looked at Kitty angrily. "It seems I may have misspoken," he could not help saying. "I must amend my earlier words. There was indeed folly at Longbourn, but it was not found in any building. There is no greater folly than the efforts of those people who try to make themselves out to be more important than they are."

Kitty glared indignantly back at him but he did not look away. Earnest likewise observed his wife, his brows knitted in concern, but said nothing. It was Mary who tactfully introduced the topic of dusty roads in the summer, and dinner mercifully concluded not long afterwards.

* * *

"What was that all about, Kitty?" Thomas demanded of his daughter after dinner. He had pulled her aside into the kitchens for a private discussion.

"You embarrassed me, papa," came the surprising and petulant response. "You should not have tried to correct me in front of my guests."

"_I_ embarrassed _you?_" Thomas repeated incredulously. "I simply corrected your falsehoods! It is not my fault that your own words came back on your own head! I have no idea why you feel the need to impress Miss Masterson when she seems to like you well enough already."

"I was not trying to impress Miss Masterson!" Kitty cried. "All I wanted to do was make it easier for her to like _you_!"

"What?" Thomas stared. "Of what are you speaking, child?"

"I knew that Miss Lucy was handsome and intelligent, and I thought that if you were to meet her, the two of you might like each other very well! So I made sure to seat her next to you on the night she and Frederick arrived here."

"Kitty!" Thomas exclaimed. He felt his mouth drop open.

"I told her months ago what a well-educated gentleman you are; I also made sure that she knows you could easily afford to marry again if you wish to do so. And my plan worked! She is quite as smitten with you as you are with her." Kitty looked at him triumphantly.

"Kitty, I am not—" he started to protest, then stopped himself. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had been about to say that he was not smitten with Lucy, but realized, at the last second, how false that would be.

"Kitty," he started again, "your intentions are admirable, but you must cease your interference in my affairs at once. My life is my own to order, and I will thank you not to be involved in it to this degree!"

"I only wanted to help you, papa!"

"Your help is not wanted! If I did have any designs on Miss Masterson—which I am not at all admitting, mind you—you may have just ruined them. You may have raised her hopes for a home which I cannot give her. Longbourn is not a great estate, and you should not have made her believe that it was. She will think that I have been toying with her!"

Kitty looked contrite. "I can speak to her if you want, papa, and make sure she understands."

"No!" He took an emphatic step towards her. "That would just make it worse. From now on, allow me to shift for myself, and leave Miss Masterson alone!"

_**Thank you to everyone who has posted a review or sent a private message. Rest assured that I read every word you say! Your feedback is what motivates me to write, and I hope you'll leave lots of motivation today! -Elaine **_


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